Shelter
by Sheblet
Summary: "It's 2 AM, and something isn't right." Claudia becomes part of the family.


**Shelter**

You wake up knowing two things:

It's 2 AM, and something isn't right.

You aren't sure how you know. You strain your ears but hear nothing; you're not quite sure what woke you in the first place. You take in your surroundings, but see no threatening shadows in the moonlight. The glow from your bedside table records the passing of another minute as you sit in complete stillness.

It is now 2:01 AM, and you are still bothered by seemingly nothing.

How frustrating.

Something draws you from your bed. You slip your feet into your bright blue slippers and smile fondly as you remember who gave them to you.

_"A gift, for helping me save Joshua. All of your clothes are earth tones," Claudia explained. "You need at least one colorful thing in your wardrobe, even if it's just slippers."_

Your stomach twists at the thought of your red-haired charge. A feeling of dread overcomes you.

_Claudia._

You rise and allow your slippered feet to carry you unthinkingly to the teen's bedroom. You stop before her cracked door and listen intently.

Nothing.

You turn away, then turn back. You repeat this several times. Your antisocial tendencies have you feeling uncomfortable with the concern you feel. It's probably nothing: you'll probably wake her up and she'll get pissed.

You're about to turn away once and for all and chastise yourself for being so overprotective when you hear it; small and almost inaudible, but definitely there.

A tear-filled moan, almost a sob.

You thrust open the door to find Claudia still curled on her side, still mostly asleep. Blood has congealed under her nose, a few drops having found their way to her pillow. Her brows are furrowed over closed eyes, as if she is in pain.

"Claudia?" you murmur, smoothing her damp red hair away from her face with one hand and switching on the bedside lamp with the other. "Kiddo?"

Claudia squirms and squints against the sudden stimulation. Then she moans, scrubbing a hand over her face, spreading the blood.

"Artie?" she questions blearily, eyes blinking but not totally open. They have a glazed quality to them. "Time's it?"

"Two-something," you mutter. "You're bleeding. Are… have you been feeling all right?" You're worried. Have the effects of Joshua's experiment not faded as you hoped? Have they caused some sort of permanent health problem?

"M'fine," she murmurs, curling back into a ball, hands pressed to her chest, face buried into her pillow. It's clear she intends to fall back asleep, not caring to clean the blood from her skin or pillow. You're about to take her word for it – about to turn away and let her handle it herself.

And then you remember the little girl screaming at you to do something. Remember how you turned your back on her then, too. How she'd had to spend her entire life "handling it herself." She looks so small under the covers.

And in that moment you swear never to do it again.

You press your large hand to her forehead where sweat has formed. You recoil almost immediately after.

"Claud- you're _burning!"_

"Put out the fire then," she murmurs hazily.

You leave the room, then return moments later with a thermometer. You coax a feverish, uncooperative Claudia into a sitting position, then put the thermometer under her tongue. You hold a hand against her back to keep her upright. She slouches forward, and her eyes have closed again.

The device beeps. You read its digital screen in the scant light of the lamp, lowering your glasses and squinting. You wish Claudia would make fun of you for the "totally geezer-ish" action. But the child remains silent.

104 degrees. You drop the thermometer and press both hands to Claudia's clammy face.

"Claudia? Claudia, listen to me. Your fever is very high. I'm going to have to take you to the emergency room. Okay?"

There's a pause, and you're not totally sure if she heard you. But then her eyes slide open a bit and she croaks, "I lied, Artie. I don't feel good."

The way she says it is so dejected, so childlike that you sigh and pull her close. Her head flops listlessly against your shoulder, and her arms do not move to return the embrace. The heat from her body practically seeps through your night shirt.

"I know, kiddo," you murmur, then you gently ease her back into a reclining position. She lets you without a fuss. "I'm going to go get dressed. Okay? Stay right here."

She smirks, and for a second the real Claudia is there and she says "I don't think I'm going to run off any time soon, old man."

When you return in a button down shirt, slacks, and your jacket and hat, Claudia has leaned forward, head in her hands. You come towards her.

"Claudia?"

"Head hurts," comes the moaned response, and you sigh, putting her jacket around her shoulders. You hear shuffling behind you and you turn, seeing a pajama-clad Pete rubbing his eye with one hand and peering at you curiously, a wide-eyed and confused Myka right beside him.

"Artie?" he inquires.

"What's going on?" adds Myka.

"Claudia is very sick," you say, "her fever is dangerously high. I'm taking her to the emergency room."

Pete nods, his face concerned. Myka folds a fist against her mouth, looking upset. You turn to Claudia. "Claudia? Do you think you can make it to the car?"

Another moan is your only answer. Suddenly, Pete is at your side, and you see a resolution and caring in his eyes you're not quite used to. Claudia reaches for him and he tucks one of his arms under her knees, the other around her back. He lifts her with ease. She leans into him, head in the dip between his neck and shoulder, arms loosely hooked around his neck. Pete shoots you a forlorn look, then walks off with Claudia in his arms. Myka follows, brushing her fingers through Claudia's hair and murmuring something.

You stand alone in Claudia's room for a moment, collecting yourself. You rub your eyes, sigh heavily, then head out to meet Claudia at the car.

An hour later you sit alone in the cold waiting room. Your hip has started to ache from the hard material of the chair beneath you. Your hands are folded in your lap and you're staring at the stark white floor, wondering if the hospital is aware its waiting room is this unpleasant.

You handed Claudia off to the staff about a half hour ago, and you're beginning to wonder what is going on behind those double doors. Just as you're about to bust through them and demand to see her, a doctor exits them and comes towards you.

"Mr. Nielsen?" he inquires.

"Yes, yes, that's me," you say breathlessly.

"We need you to come back and see if you can calm your daughter. She is very frightened and feverish and currently refusing treatment." You start at the word daughter, then disregard it in favor of more important matters.

"What?" you exhale forcefully, brows furrowing. "Where is she?"

"Follow me please."

When you find Claudia, she's in a hospital gown, sitting in the corner of the room, knees drawn up as she sobs hysterically into them. Her sobs increase in volume and form into the word "no" each time a nurse tries to touch her.

You kneel before her. "Claudia?" you murmur. "Claudia, it's me, it's Artie."

Her head raises, and a tear streaked, terrified white face peers back at you. "They want to treat me. I don't need to be treated. I'm not crazy!"

This time you're sure your heart has shattered painfully inside your chest. You silently curse yourself. If only you hadn't left her all those years ago….

"Make them stop, Artie," her tear-filled voice chokes, bringing you from your bought of self-loathing. "Please."

"Claudia," you murmur, grabbing her hands, "Listen to me. You are not in the asylum. You're at the hospital, because you are sick. These doctors want to help you. Please let them. For me?"

There's a long pause, and then she nods. You sigh in relief. "Good girl," you murmur, and proceed to lift her the way you saw Pete do earlier, and you feel your heart warm as Claudia's head snuggles against your chest. You stumble a little, and a nurse steps forward to assist, but you deflect her with a hurried "No no, I've got her."

You set Claudia carefully on the bed, pressing a kiss to her hair, then move back to let the nurses do their job.

"So what is it, doctor?" you ask worriedly. He looks at his clipboard. "It appears she had a cold that grew into sinusitis and a very potent strain of the flu. We're giving her some antibiotics now, and I'd like her to stay overnight. Her condition was most likely caused by exhaustion. I would recommend less stressful activities and more rest. At least eight hours of sleep at night."

You feel a pang of guilt. Claudia literally ran herself into the ground helping Joshua, and then you set her straight to work at the warehouse. Now she's sick, and it's your damn fault.

"Can I stay with her?" you ask once the doctor and most of the nurses have left. The remaining nurse smiles and nods, then exits the room.

You sit in the chair beside her bed. It's soft and comfortable, a large contrast from the waiting room chairs, and you feel yourself dozing. You're interrupted by a moan beside you.

"No," Claudia cries in her sleep, "please."

You don't have the heart to wake her, so you hold her hand instead, stroking your thumb over her knuckles soothingly. She soon quiets.

And that's how the nurse finds you later that morning; asleep in the chair, Claudia's small hand in yours.


End file.
